A Disappearing Act
by sweet little nightmare
Summary: After the disappearance of her daughter Coraline, Mel Jones considers their time together and the mistakes she has made. Movie-verse. Oneshot but could be something more


**Disclaimer: I don't own 'Coraline', the novel or any of its characters. Neil Gaiman does.**

**Summary: When her daughter goes missing, Mel Jones thinks about the years she's spent with her and the mistakes she's made. Oneshot at the moment, but might continue if people like it!**

Disappear

I remember with perfect clarity the day she was born. Doesn't every mother remember?

I thought she had the biggest, bluest eyes I'd ever seen – so beautiful! – I couldn't help hoping they stayed that colour. But they're hazel now, like mine. Only while her eyes have always been sharp and curious, mine just look tired.

She cried this tiny, thin little cry and reached up to me with little hands splayed like five-pointed stars. And I hardly dared to believe she was mine.

Charlie wanted to name her Mae, after his grandmother who had died when he was quite young, and I wanted to respect that, but I also wanted something extra special for my daughter, who I was sure would grow up to be extraordinary.

Coraline.

It has a ring to it, doesn't it? It caught my eye in one of those books you can buy to help you choose the right name for your child. Coraline. A variant of Coral. But so much more interesting and lovely. I had other ideas also, but Coraline was what we agreed on. Coraline Mae Jones.

When she got older, annoyed by people calling her Caroline by mistake, I regretted it somewhat. When she was seven, we tried shortening it to Cora, thinking that would be less confusing, but it didn't stick. Cora put me in mind of a sweet, dreamy child. Coraline was anything but. She was excitable, challenging, questioning everything. And for that, I loved her all the more.

But when she was almost nine, I decided to resume working full time. After that, I saw her less and less, and it seemed that she was always complaining at me, always trying to grab my attention. We irritated each other. Friction grew and hovered between us like an ominous swarm of wasps. She'd get home from school and go straight back out again or straight up to her room. And then, at the most inopportune of moments, she'd demand that I listened to what she had to say, or told her a story, or took her to an amusement park. And because I was working, I had to say no.

When she was eleven, without even telling me, she went and cut her lovely, long brown hair. Thick locks of it covered the bathroom floor and she sat amidst them, looking faintly surprised at her own daring. I cried, and did my best to arrange what remained of her hair into a neat bob. It was the longest time I'd spent with her in weeks, perhaps even months, and I spent the whole of it wondering what I'd done to deserve this.

The next month, it was blue. Her hair, I mean. She came home from her friend's house with box-dyed blue-black hair that gleamed when the light caught it. We started yelling at each other. It would have gone on for hours, only that I had a deadline for the leaflet I was designing. So that was that. We didn't even argue properly.

I'd thought that when we moved house, things would get better, and for a while, they did. The first few weeks we were living there, I hadn't seen much of her. She was off exploring with that odd boy Wyborn Lovat, or on her own, or visiting our various eccentric neighbours. But then, inexplicably, she started having these nightmares, and she'd slip into my bedroom in the early hours of the morning, pale and afraid. She didn't want to talk about it, so we sat and talked about other things. We made plans to visit interesting places in the area. I promised that if she did well in school, she could have the clumpy purple Dr. Martens she'd been asking for.

And until she hit fourteen, everything was more or less perfect. Yes, we had arguments, but not nearly as many as before. We were both more tolerant, more accommodating, of one another. We kept our promises. I made sure to spend more time with her. The blue hair stayed, but she let it grow back to the unruly tangle halfway down her back that I'd so loved. At school, she excelled in Art and History, and I was proud of her.

And then, at fourteen, she disappeared. My little girl was gone. I don't mean that we grew apart again – no, that would have been better, much better, than what actually happened. What I mean is, one night, when I went to sleep, I could hear her messing about in her room with lights and music and what-not. And then, in the morning when she didn't come downstairs and I went to wake her, she was gone.

Nowhere to be seen.

And on her pillow, a needle and a spool of night-dark thread.

And me standing there, wondering where on earth my daughter was. And Charlie making excuses like maybe she'd left the house early – she did that sometimes, but I couldn't believe that was what had happened – and tense, agonising hours of waiting. And calling the police. And more waiting.

I'm still waiting. It's been two years now.

My only daughter – the one I loved so fiercely – is not coming back.


End file.
